Natural Occurrence
by Mizu Iruka
Summary: AU S8, post first trial. Sam was coughing blood, but it wasn't because of the Trials. It wasn't even because of something supernatural. Dean's not happy with that.


Dean pretty much growled at Sam. It wasn't _completely_ warranted, but it kind of was.

"So what, you were just going to hide the fact that these trials are making you cough up blood?" he snarled, waving the bloody handkerchief that Sam had just tried to hide. It wasn't exactly sanitary to be brandishing it, but Dean didn't care about that right now.

"Dean," Sam said softly.

"No, you don't get a say in this. I'm pulling the big brother card, and I am doing these trials. We'll find another hellhound, and I'll gank it. That's it. No other option here, Sammy, so no use arguing. You're not taking the bullet for all of this." Dean was pretty much panting by the end of his rant.

And . . . Sam wasn't arguing. Which Dean hadn't expected, just as he hadn't expected Sam to leave him in Purgatory to rot.

Instead, he was looking at Dean with an expression that came far too close to the look on his face when he'd thrown himself into the cage with Lucifer. Dean had never wanted to see that on his brother's face again, but there it was.

"Dean, stop."

Dean swelled, ready to go on a tirade again, but something in Sam's eyes made him hold his tongue.

"The blood . . . It's not because of the trials."

And Dean's thoughts came to a terrible, screeching halt. "What do you mean?" he asked numbly.

Sam sank down into a chair, scrubbing his unshaven face with tired hands. "There was a reason I stopped looking for you."

Dean didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything. His brain was an awful, swirling combination of speeding ahead a million miles an hour to a future with Sammy dead and a flash backwards to the Impala just the other night, and Dean telling Sam to die a natural death, and Sam smiling with a half-laugh, and—

"Sam?" Dean choked out. He just wanted it to be something supernatural, something they could beat.

"I'll finish the trials, Dean. I will. I won't fail, even with . . . well, with this. Oh, Amelia is my doctor, not my . . . girlfriend," and of course, Sam hesitated on that word, and Dean should've realized, that even now it was still Jessica, that there was something off about the whole scenario but he had been a jealous idiot. "You get it, right?"

Dean was in some kind of shock, but managed to ask dazedly, "get what?"

"Why I didn't look for you." Sam's eyes were far too intense. "I'm sorry, man. I thought you were in heaven, honestly. Well, I hoped it, you know? And I wasn't about to drag you back to a world where I was about to die."

And there. Sam had said it, blatant and obvious, and Dean was internally screaming and being torn apart. Maybe he hadn't escaped Purgatory. Maybe he had gone the wrong direction and slipped into Hell by mistake.

"What—what is it?" he whispered.

"Does it matter?" Sam's smile was faint. "It's just some kind of disease, okay? Not exactly cancer. Doctor just gave me some coded doctor mumbo jumbo, internal degenerative disease and all that. Gave me less than a year, about four months ago. Trust me, as far as deaths go, it won't be that bad."

And Sam would know, having been knifed, struck by lightening, shot, and sent to Hell.

Suddenly Dean had to throw up, and he was rushing into their bathroom, and maybe he was dying instead of Sam, because it felt like it.

And Dean would know, having died quite a few times himself.

"It'll be okay, Dean. Just breathe, man. Just breathe."

A surge of anger managed to conquer the nausea, and Dean twisted around to grab Sam by his shirt.

"Light at the end of the tunnel, man? You're so full of it, you know that? You don't get to do this to me, Sammy, you don't."

Sam's eyes were filled with a mournful resignation. "Dean, it'll be okay. The light at the end of the tunnel, that's for you. You don't need me there. You have friends, Dean."

"And you don't?" Dean half-snarled, but the thought set him back on his heels, that Sam really didn't have anyone. Sam had been hanging back, in the shadows, letting Dean make connections while cutting himself off. Dean hadn't even noticed. And he wanted to scream at Sam, tell him that he didn't want friends, just Sam, and Sam was an _idiot_.

"Dean," Sam offered placatingly, but Dean shoved him away, stumbling out of the bathroom and desperately needing to destroy something. Preferably with his bare hands.

Sam was too close behind him, and Dean whirled, swinging a fist out and catching his brother across the jaw. Sam rolled with it, spinning around to block Dean's second punch and trapping Dean's arm in his.

"Dean. Stop."

Dean was beyond words though, and wildly tried to hit again. This time, Sam ducked and twisted Dean around so that he was caught in a backwards bear hug. All of Dean's struggling, and he couldn't break free of his sick—dying—little brother's grasp as they toppled down to the floor. Sam was murmuring something, probably more pointless reassurances, but Dean wasn't listening. He _wasn't_.

Sam's voice turned serious and dark, cutting through the haze Dean where was currently drowning. "No deals. Dean, this is it. Got that?"

Dean felt the tendrils of a stiffening resolve. "No, but I won't need to. I'll get Cas, an angel, any angel, and we are fixing you."

Sam's laugh was against his neck, a low and tired sound. "Dean, what angel would heal me? And they shouldn't heal me, anyway. I'm broken already, man. And I get everyone around me killed. No, this is it. It's my time. I've come to terms with it, Dean. You need to."

Dean was beyond struggling where he lay, listless in his little brother's arms, but he still scowled. "Not happening."

"'Fraid there isn't another option, Dean."

Dean let his head fall back against Sam's shoulder. "But we were good again. Finally."

Sam's arms tightened around him. "I know."

* * *

Dean still tried to find a way out. Called out every night to Castiel, to any angel that might be out there.

No one answered.

Sam was deteriorating before his eyes, but was stubborn as ever, insisting on taking on the task to close the gates of Hell. The second trial passed, his condition only worsening.

Dean took him to Niagara Falls. Because somehow, they hadn't been there. They still hadn't gone to the Grand Canyon, but Sam didn't want to go there.

"Why not?" Dean whined, deliberately acting as immature as possible, the falls thundering behind him.

Sam stood silent, fingertips tracing the railing. Dean realized that Sam was losing weight.

"After I'm gone, will you ever come back to Niagara?" Sam asked out of the blue, and then Dean got it. Sam didn't want him to have bad memories associated with the one place he had always wanted to go.

He strode off, not even bothering to respond to Sam. Only to turn back and help Sam when he stumbled.

"You know we've danced this way before," he said later, in the motel room. Dean would have paid for some place nicer, but Sam had insisted on a motel. Probably for some stupid sentimental reason.

"What do you mean?"

"I tried going on, after. With Lisa."

Sam nodded. "And it would have worked, if I hadn't come back."

"No."

"Dean, it did. It wasn't perfect, I know, but you were living. I get it. You won't be completely happy if I'm not with you. That goes both ways. But you'll just have to make do. Then you can find mom and dad in heaven."

Dean frowned. "What, you want me to stay away from you in your pretty little Stanford paradise?"

Sam's smile shouldn't even have been categorized as a smile. "Please don't follow me into Hell."

Dean gaped. "Dude. What, did you start another apocalypse while I wasn't watching?"

Sam winced, and Dean regretted the cheap shot, but for some reason Sam thought he was headed downstairs, and that was wrong on too many levels.

"Dean, I'm a guy with far too many sins on my head. Not exactly heaven material." Sam shrugged helplessly.

"Sam." Dean swept a hand across his face. "You paid for that. You paid way too much for that. If anyone's getting into heaven, it's you, little brother. Trust me."

Sam looked torn, until his lips finally twisted into something a little closer to a real smile. "I do, you jerk. And when did you become such a girl?"

"Shut up."

* * *

Sam would have episodes, terrible, heart-stopping sessions that would leave Dean with his heart in his throat. He'd cough up blood, be unable to breathe, and Dean would be forced to set aside his own bubbling panic and hold Sam, helping him to calm down, every time thinking how they should go to an ER, but Sam wouldn't let him.

Deep down, Dean wanted Sam to let go and stop struggling to stay alive, the pain was tearing both of them apart, but Sam was too stubborn. He wanted to close the gates of Hell for good, and Dean had to let him do it.

It was all too soon when they discovered the final task. A task that was apparently going to end with Sam's death.

"I thought we were over this, after Lucifer," Dean said softly.

Sam shrugged. "Guess there are patterns, y'know?"

Dean snorted. "Don't you mean destiny?"

"Team free will, remember?" Sam smiled at him dopily. "I'm gonna miss you."

Dean nudged Sam with his shoulder. "You just wait for me up there. Relive your greatest hits, you know?"

"Like tonight," Sam stated, the freaking girl.

"Dude, you're ridiculous."

Sam grinned at him, a carefree grin that struck Dean as so very very wrong. No one was supposed to look so happy the night before they died.

"Sammy, don't leave," he whispered.

Sam tugged Dean close before reaching into his pocket with something Dean couldn't see. "Here."

"What?"

Sam messed with something above Dean's head, and then a familiar weight dropped down to rest against his sternum. Dean's throat closed up, and suddenly he was far too close to tears.

"You—"

"You didn't think I would leave it in the trash, did you?" Sam murmured.

Dean swore under his breath with a strange kind of awe, fondling the amulet. Sam nudged him.

"See. I won't really leave."

"Dude, since when are you so sappy?" Dean growled, trying to maintain some of his kind of already-destroyed manly appearance. The wetness around his eyes was royally screwing that up.

"Shut up," Sam said comfortably. "Last night on earth, I figure I get to use a few cliches."

Dean grumbled under his breath, but just rested, ignoring the impending trial and allowed himself a few moments to be Sam's brother again.

Dean had kind of hoped for a last-second miracle. But it didn't happen. Sam died. Dean kept living. It wasn't good. It wasn't bad. Always kind of empty. But he was able to keep going.

That wasn't going to stop him from punching Sam in the face when he got to heaven, though. On principle.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, Season 8 is done. Honestly for me, it was probably the worst season. I mean, I loved the brother hugs, but the writing was messy overall. So I'll probably be writing a bunch of random fix-its, if I have the energy.

This is a concept that initially was born when we first saw Sam coughing blood. Because it would have been ironic if Dean's like "hey sam stay alive and have this life" and then he was sick from something natural. But that ship sailed. So anyway, this is my take. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
